Spirare
by Arsh
Summary: Castle's eternal war takes a sharp turn during some of the darkest days of Frank Castle's life, when every hunter, predator, and killer comes out of the shadows to do the impossible... kill the Punisher. But Castle has other plans.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

_On the 7th day,_

I was broken, battered, and bloody. My lungs struggled for each breath. It felt as if there were two sharp needles behind my eyes. I can barely lift a finger. I can barely think coherently.

I take another punch, and spit out a clot of blood.

From far away, I hear voices. I can barely make anything out. There are two of them.

"They won't talk. What should we do?"

"Hm… Leave this one. Kill the other one."

I hear sounds of struggle. I try to move, but my hands are bound. I summon all my strength and look ahead.

The images come in quick flashes as I struggle to stay conscious. I see the guard lift the silenced pistol. I see him pull the trigger. I see the handcuffed man shudder as the bullets tear into his chest. I see the blood begin to pool on the ground.

I black out again, fall into a nightmare world filled with the screams of the dying.


	2. ab initio

_**chapter 1: ab initio**_

_7 Days Ago,_

_In the beginning,_

"I'll fucking kill you, you stupid American motherfucking cocksucker! I'll kill you and feed you to the fucking fish, I'll feed your fingers to pigs and cut off your tiny bit and feed it to the rats! Come out from where you're fucking hiding and face me like a fucking man!"

Just to prove his point, the Irishman revs the chainsaw and starts running down the aisle. screaming like a banshee.

He runs past my little cranny in the wall and begins to cut at the locked door that leads into the processing section of this meat plant.

I'd been trailing this guy for the better part of a week. The cops had this guy as a suspect for the murders of several prostitutes in Bed-Stuy.

The last one was found scattered all over I-95. They still haven't found all of her.

Because of a faulty search warrant, any evidence (which was mostly circumstancal anyway) was thrown out of court. He walked, free as a bird.

It's a good thing I don't bother with search warrants.

I visited the meat plant that he owned, took a look around, but didn't find much. What sucks about slaughter houses is that you can't tell if it's human or animal blood splattered all over the walls.

I was just about to call it a night when Irishman showed up at the plant. He was grunting as he dragged something across the floor. It was a large burlap sack. I stayed behind in the shadows as he dragged it across the blood-slicked floor.

I took out my .45 as I took a step closer.

My mistake.

As I moved forward, my hip brushed against a cabinet door. The hinges squeaked.

The Irishman swung around, pointing a large revolver in my direction. I dropped as he fired a huge hole into the wall behind me. He fired three more times as I slid across the slippery floor.

He ran as I turned to fire back at him. I could see something moving in the burlap sack. I headed towards the sack when another shot rang out. The bullet slammed into the floor near my foot. I ran behind a counter as another bullet just grazed my arm.

I looked around the corner and fired four times into the general direction of where I had heard the shots coming from. I heard a scream, then a clatter as the Irishman dropped his gun.

I ran out from behind the counter and headed towards the yell. I kept my pistol pointed forward as I walked towards the door where I could hear some heavy breathing coming from.

Another mistake.

As I pulled open the door, the Irishman leapt out. He slammed something long and hard into my chest. My body froze up. My lungs burned as they struggled to breathe. There was a shooting pain in my chest. The .45 slipped from my hands. My legs crumpled from beneath me as I fell down. My head felt like it would explode. I couldn't see properly. There were flashes everywhere. I saw a cattleprod in his hands. I could barely hear the Irishman gloating.

"Ha ha, you stupid bastard. Thought you could get me, eh? Well, you were fucking wrong, alright. And look what we have here, ladies and gents. It's that fucking crazy bloke. What do they call you again? Aye, that's right... The Punisher. Well sir, don't worry. I got something extra special for you.", he said, as he picked up my gun and slid it into his belt. He walked off, chuckling to himself.

My body struggled to remember how to move. I forced myself to crawl towards the door. I had a shotgun in the trunk of my car. I told myself I could reach it in time. That's when I heard it. It was an ear-splitting sound. A grinding noise that brought a chill to my bones.

Chainsaw.

Adrenaline surged through my veins, and I began to move quicker to the door. I got up to my feet, and grabbed the door knob. It refused to budge. I looked around for something I could use as a weapon. I spotted a large butcher knife on the counter. The grinding sound of the chainsaw was getting louder.

I grabbed the knife, and limped off looking for somewhere to hide. I then spotted the squirming burlap sack. I had forgotten about it. I grabbed the sack and dragged it over behind the counter, then headed to the opposite door, to the meat processing section of the plant.

That too was locked, but I spotted a tiny cranny to the side of the door. I slid into it, and held my breath.

The Irishman began to scream curses when he noticed I wasn't lying on the floor anymore.

He headed to the door close to me. He revved the chainsaw. I held my breath as he came closer. I clutched the knife tight.

He walked past me and smash the chainsaw into the door, as he began to scream and laugh. I had to be quick.

I slid out of the cranny, and limped behind him. The chainsaw covered my footsteps. I kicked out as hard as I could, and connected with the back of the Irishman's knee. He buckled as I slammed the knife into his side. I grabbed the chainsaw from his hands, and shut it off.

The Irishman fell to the floor, yelling curses and screaming in pain from his broken knee and bleeding flank.

"Shut up." I told him.

I kicked him in the mouth, breaking several of his teeth. He spat out the teeth and blood and looked at me in shock.

"Please," he began, "please, please, don't, I'm so sorry, please..."

I held up the chainsaw.

"Don't worry. I got something extra special for you."


	3. ante meridiem

_**chapter 2: ante meridiem**_

The burlap sack contained a very frightened hooker. I left her the Irishman's phone with instructions to call the police. I didn't want to leave her with what was left of the Irishman, but those are the breaks.

My body still ached from the encounter with the cattle prod. I threw up once on the drive home. I could barely stand once I reached my bed. I touched my chest where I was hit. It stung like hell. I looked in the mirror, and saw two small burns next to each other. They had turned an ugly shade of red. I didn't have any painkillers or antibiotics.

"Fuck it."

I put on some burn ointment and applied a bandage on top of it. Antibiotics would have to wait. I slept for what felt like a million years. I slept. And I dreamed.

----------------------

_There is no rest for the wicked. _

---------------------

Detective Hugh Blackfield used to think the world could be made whole again. He used to believe that the world was really a good place. That people were basically good, deep down inside. He believed that he could make a difference. He joined the NYPD, thinking he could make a difference.

He was wrong.

He learned quick enough. He learned as he lay bleeding in a back alleyway, having taken a 9mm slug to the chest. He learned as drug addicts and gang bangers and people who just didn't give a shit simply walked away or stared or ignored.

Shit.

He swallowed a Vicodin and washed it down with some whiskey he had found in the cupboard.

He sat down in his recliner and looked beside him at the picture on the small table. It was a photograph taken a long time ago. It was a photograph of a woman with striking blue eyes and hair the colour of night. She was smiling and for a moment, Blackfield's heart warmed. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. Sarah.

He turned on the television.

The top story was about a homicide somewhere in the Bronx. Something about a slaughter house. Cops had found a woman inside, scared but safe. She had told them about a man who saved her from some crazy fuck with a chainsaw.

Blackfield smirked.

There was a file on the kitchen table. Blackfield had a call to make in the morning.

----------------------

The deal would go down tomorrow evening. Hugo Lacerda smiled to himself. Tomorrow, he'd be a much richer man than today. Not much concerned Lacerda, asides from money and power.

Robert Witts, Lacerda's new right hand man projected an outward aura of confidence, but was nervous as hell inside. He had been undercover with Lacerda for the last year and a half. Tomorrow oughta be the final nail in Lacerda's coffin.

The FBI doesn't fuck around.

------------------------

Rockton left the whorehouse a much happier man. Life was looking good. The deal tomorrow night, the girls now, and hell... the Captain even let him lead this time.

He was on top of the world.

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I find the file taped to the underside of a phonebooth in Queens. This is one of several dead drops that Blackfield's arranged for me. His inside information is incredibly useful. It makes everything far more efficient. I don't think Blackfield helps me out of the kindness in his heart. He has his own reasons.

Blackfield has access to a huge network of career criminals and rats. He's by far the most useful weapon in my arsenal.

The subject of the file is Hugo Lacerda. Big-time coke dealer. He escaped me once, let himself be arrested by the cops rather than face me. Smart bastard.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Lacerda wasn't leaving the docks tonight unless it was in a body bag.

-----------------------

I'm in place at the docks, waiting for the buyers to show up. Lacerda's been there for about 15 minutes when they finally show up. Three guys, all white and dressed in black, get out of their black Crown Vic. They start talking to Lacerda.

I move in for the kill when it happens. I hear shouts and see the three buyers pointing suppressed pistols at Lacerda. Lacerda's head vanishes in a puff of red smoke. Lacerda's three guards are down in a split second.

I bring the M-4 to my shoulder and fire a burst at the buyers. One goes down as the 5.56 round blows a hole through his throat. He begins to thrash around on the ground as the other two swing to return fire. They take cover and begin to exchange fire with me. Something's not right here.

These aren't some piece of shit cokeheads. These guys are trained. Right away, I can tell... they're soldiers.

The driver of the Crown Vic rolls down the window, and I see it. An M-79 Grenade Launcher. He fires a round towards me.

I hear someone scream, "Rockton, get in!".

I dive out of the way as the round passes over my head and blows a hole in a metal container. Shrapnel fills the air. Sharp pieces strike my arms and legs. A cut forms across my cheek. I take cover behind another metal container. By the time I turn around to return fire, the Crown Vic is gone, along with it's passengers, including the man with the bleeding throat. All that's left of them are spent brass and a blood puddle.

I head towards the bodies. I quickly check the pockets of the sellers. No identification. I then take a look at Lacerda and his boys. I start checking the pockets when I see it. My heart feels as if it's about to explode. My lungs seize up.

I pick up the bloody piece of metal besides one of Lacerda's boys. I wipe some of the blood off, hoping it's not what I think it is. I tell myself that this was some sort of mistake.

I take a look at the shield. I gaze at the dead man. He looks barely out of high school.

I look back at the piece of metal in my hand, and the identification next to it. His name was Robert Witts. I see the three large letters above his picture and name.

FBI.

I'm holding a dead cop's badge.

Sirens fill the night.


	4. ad undas

_**chapter 3: ad undas**_

_The hunters come out of the shadows_

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Castle... that fuck was a loose end.

Rockton was angry. He had to take care of Castle. He couldn't leave witnesses, no matter how dangerous their reputation sounded.

Castle killed Galen. They dumped his body in the River and ditched the car in the Bronx. They'd just barely made it away from the cops.

The Captain would be pissed if Castle was left alive. Rockton had to find Castle, and fast, before the Captain discovered what had happened.

But Rockton was good at his job. He'd make sure that it'd be done. He could find people. And he could make them vanish just as well.

If there was one thing he learned from his day in the Corps, it was that he was good at killing. He liked it. Watching the blood splash around him, the cries of pain, the heat and smoke... it was heaven.

Castle was the most dangerous man in the country, according to the rumours.

He hadn't ever met the Captain. Then he would learn real fear.

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FBI Special Agent Sebastian Scott walks out of the LaGuardia Terminal and takes a cab into the city. He's to meet up with the New York office soon. It's been a long time since he was in New York.

Frank Castle... he always wanted to find him. The ultimate test. You could catch Castle, you're made for life.

If anyone could do it... it'd be him.

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By all rights, I should have left town right away. Laid low for a few weeks, then gone after the fucks responsible. My gut tells me that the police won't be able to find them.

Them. The buyers. Something seemed familiar about them. The way they moved, their speed, tactics.

It nagged at him. They'd taken the wounded man with them, even though he was probably dead within minutes. I had seen his jugular erupt in a geyser of blood. Other than the pool of blood and some spent shell casings, there was no evidence of them.

I had taken some of the brass with me. Didn't help though, not a single finger print on them.

They were sharp.

The cops were in an uproar. The DA's office was working in overdrive, building up their case. The mayor's office was screaming touger crime penalties and increased task force out for my blood. Cops were agreeing. In one fell swoop, I had the entire city of New York against me.

This was bad.

Several "witnesses" had come forward and placed me at the scene. Funny, considering I'd scouted the entire place before I set up. I always make sure there are no innocents around.

So definitely, there was something wrong here. Worst-case scenario, these fucks knew people high up.

The entire city is baying for my blood. When their beloved neighborhood vigilante murders a cop, they don't take it sitting down.

Of course, I didn't kill him.

Finding the buyers takes precedence over anything else.

I wonder if I should put in a call to Blackfield. Tell him my side of the story.

May as well. Got nothing else to lose.

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The entire FBI Field Office was in a frenzy by the time Scott reached there. He met up with his liason, Agent Richards. Richards was an emaciated, sweaty wreck of a man. Scott was there for 30 seconds before a secretary came up and told him that the press conference was underway. Scott headed outside where the DA, Jack Thompson, was already shouting with bravado into the mass of reporters.

"This has gone on long enough! There are dozens of bodies, all because of this murderous and psychotic "vigilante"! We will bring him in. The New York Police Department is working with the FBI and Homeland Security and we are using every resource at our disposal to bring this murderer in!"

Scott and Richards walked to the podium and stood behind Thompson. Thompson finished his tirade and gave the floor to Scott.

I'm on, he thought to himself.

"Thank you for joining us here today. I am FBI Special Agent Sebastian Scott. The Bureau is working with the NYPD and Homeland Security to bring Frank Castle AKA The Punisher in. We will have him face justice for his crimes. This has gone on long enough. Castle has finally snapped and murdered an officer of the law. It's time to end it. Now then..."

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I shut off the TV. I'm worried about the Fed that was just on the TV. I like to think of myself as an excellent judge of character. When you spend as much time as I do with the scum of humanity, it becomes a kind of sixth sense. This Scott... he's a smart one. Based on the press conference, he seems calm and collected. It's his eyes that give him away though.

I see a sort of excitement in them. He's gonna relish hunting me down.

Well then...

I thought to myself, what my next move should be.

Hmm...

Maybe I can use this guy to my advantage.


End file.
